iNeed My Blanket
by UntoldGlory
Summary: A dark look on why Sam is what she is, my twisted theories on it. If you're easily disturbed, don't read.
1. iNeed My Blanket

**Authors Notes:**** Okay, so this is my first iCarly fanfic. It's… well way too dark for the show, but it's what came to me. R&R Oh and for once, no yuri warning! :O**

**Disclaimer:**** I don't own anything in relation to iCarly. I sort of own Sam's stepfather character, but I'd rather not claim him…**

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iNeed My Blanket.

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It's three-forty-two am, your hair's wet, you haven't slept., you most likely wont but that doesn't matter right now. Right now you need your blanket, god if Freddy… if anyone, anyone could hear you now how they'd laugh. But you don't care, you're falling apart, you need your blanket. You need to shove someones head through a wall, but you can't. You can't. You have to prove, you're not like him. You're not the best, the most beautiful, the smartest or the most hardworking but you're _not_ like _him_.

That's why you need your blanket.

Not that thick dead weight of a duvet that has no cover because your Mom never bothered to wash it and you only have the shakiest grasp on how to use the washing machine and the Laundromat's always too crowed to do heavy loads and besides you have food to buy with your allowance, not paying for stupid clean bedding.

So you need your blanket.

It was tangled up in your bed sheets last time you saw it, last time you slept in your own bed. Which, admittedly was a while a go, you don't take your blanket to Carlys, she'd laugh or think less of you or even worse, she'd pretend to understand. Understand in that strange mistaken way that people who haven't had to raise themselves do. Like when they think they can relate to you because their Mom left them without a babysitter once. But you don't tell people anyway. Well you do, but in a way that it makes them think you're joking, or you don't care, but you do. It hurts, no one's there for you and it hurts, that's why you're big and tough now. Because you learnt, it doesn't pay to be weak. _He_ taught you that. You're not weak, you're just having a moment, one of those moments that seem to be getting more and more frequent these days, a moment where you need someone.

No one's there so you need you blanket.

You can't find it and now you're getting frantic. You've found a half eaten cookie, your favourite sweater that you just gave up looking for months ago, plates with food residue caked in that defiantly should have been washed weeks ago, empty soda bottles and glass, lots of glass. You completely forgot about the glass, it's been there weeks, you've cut the palms of your hands with it and the stinging sensation tells you your knees have suffered as well. But it doesn't matter. It's not like cuts and bruises are new to you.

God do you need your blanket right now.

You need it more than you need jerky and you could really really use some nice dried meat products right now. It's not in your room, and neither is jerky, that much is clear. All this searching is making you hungry, but you know all you have in is welfare cheese and sour milk, oh and _his _lean cuisine meals but that barely qualifies as food. You find the imitation meat so unreasonably insulting. It's not that you like the idea of people slaughtering animals for a source of nutrition that's also pleasing to the taste buds, in fact when you were five you were a vegetarian. Five-year-olds are foolish. You were foolish. You thought everything was fine, that it would stay fine. But it didn't, it couldn't, it never would be again, not after him. Mommy's dealer, lover, other half. Your substitute father. Daddy loves you Sammy, _so _much, more than the other Daddy's love their daughters. You remember that. You remember scrubbing so hard but you were never clean enough again. You'll never be clean enough again.

Now you really need your blanket.

You're in the kitchen and you know he's defiantly here, in your house, in your mothers bed because you've stood in his dogs mess. Beautiful. Wonderful. It's always you. Now you have to scrub your toes in the kitchen sink, thank god you're even slightly flexible. The water's cold, it numbs your foot almost completely, but you know it wont matter if you turn the hot tap on or not. She hasn't paid the bill this month, just like last month, and the month before and every month since time began. Okay you're being overdramatic but it feels like it, it feels like you've been spending your entire existence learning how to manage her, or rather without her. So your blanket isn't in the kitchen clearly. You should probably clean up the shit, but you'd rather leave it for _him_. You hear a noise, you really hope it's your mother stumbling still half baked to the bathroom. But as your luck dictates, it's not, it's _him_. And he has your blanket. "Hey Sammy." He coos softly. You hate him, you hate him, he hurt's you just by living. You want to hurt him, you want to smash his face into the dirty cream wall. But you don't. Because he scares you too. You don't say anything. You don't move. You're not strong, angry Sam Puckett anymore. You're terrified, weak little Sammy. _His_ Sammy. You hate _his_ Sammy. He snorts something like laughter, you want to kick him in the man bits. You want to hack his man bits off, gouge his eyes out and lacerate his vocal cords.

But you want your blanket more.

"Gimmie my blanket," You snarl with your eyes fixed on the floor, you feel his intense emerald eyes boring into you. You hear him walking closer to you. Your heart wants to kill you. It's trying to kill you. You can feel its desperate attempts resonate in your ear drums. You see his feet, hairy big toes with yellowish nails and all the trimmings. You feel his sweaty hands on the back of your neck. You smell that rancid mix of stale sweat and three day old beer all mixed off with subtle deodorant undertones. You want to kill him. You want to die.

You want your blanket.

He says nothing. He does nothing. He's just stood there with his sleazy hands on your neck making you feel so sick. He's breathing all over you and you feel so wrong. He has your blanket and that's not right. His left hand stays on your neck, his right caresses your cheek. You want to throw up. It's happening again. He's doing that thing again. That thing were he wants you. That thing were he's inside you and it breaks you. He has your blanket. You can't hold back the tears. You're not strong like they all think. You don't sob because he doesn't like it when you do that. But you can't stop your eyes water bleeding. There's so much wrong it has to ooze out of somewhere. You want your blanket, you want it, if you hold on it'll be over and you can have your blanket back.. One day you'll hurt him. One day you'll kill him. Chop his junk off and stir fry it. Except you wont. You don't want to be near him. You don't want to be in this room, in this house.

He stops.

You're numb.

He drops your blanket beside you.

You hold it close to you and you crawl all the way back into your bed. You don't even want the blanket anymore. He's touched it. It's all dirty. All dirty all over. Your face is cold. You want a shower. The blanket doesn't matter anymore.The water's cold and the name power shower is totally ironic right now, but you don't care. It doesn't matter. You soap yourself up. You lather and rinse. You scrub till you bleed. But you're not clean, you'll never be clean. Never.

You punch the shower wall.

The tiles smash.

Your knuckles bleed.

But it's not real.

It doesn't matter.

You're too filthy to matter.

You want to go home. You want a hug. You want your Carly. You need your Carly. You need her to want you. Not in that sick twisted way he does. As a friend. As a something. As a someone. You once told her she's your best friend because you're a loveable person. You know that's not true. You know most people are either afraid of you or dislike you extremely, or a mixture of the two You can't really blame them though. You're aggressive, you're mean, you're a bully. You're _him_! How could you turn into him without even noticing?!

You really need Carly.

That's why you're walking half clothed and wearing stupid pink flowery flip flops in the pouring rain to her house. You need someone to tell you you're not awful. That you're wonderful and they love you just the way you are and you don't have to try and please them. It's not true but you need to be lied too so bad. Just one empty lie to stop you from throwing yourself from an overpass onto on coming traffic. Not that there's really all that much traffic at a quarter to five in the morning. Wait! Is that watch even telling the truth?! You've been walking twenty minutes already?! You hope Carly wont mind you waking her up. What will you tell her? Will you tell her anything? Does she have to know? She'll wonder why you didn't tell her before. She wont be able to look at you in the eyes again. She'll call the cops and you'll be taken into foster care and your life will get so totally fucked… you can't even think about it. You need to think about the more likely scenario. She wont believe you. No one ever does. Because Sam tells stories. Sam lies. A lot. Sam's a bad girl. Sam probably wanted it. Sam probably _started_ it. But you need this. You need her to believe.

You need someone to believe.

What are you doing? You're crazy. This is crazy. You're a wreak. No one can see you like this. You've worked too hard for too long to keep this away from her, you can't blow it all now. But you need someone. You need _someone_. You're stood at her front door. You want her to be that someone. But you can hurt her like that. She's your best friend. You can't let her know you've been hurt like _that_. That you're still being hurt like _that_. That you've lived fourteen miserable years and still not figured how to make him stop wanting you. It was different when you were really little and he used to hug you afterwards. He'd kiss your forehead and tell you that you're so special. Now you're so confused. So confused. And god why are you crying on Carly Shay's doorstep like… like fucking Freddy!

"Sam…?" His voice startles you. Your tear streaked face startles him, probably more than he did you. He lowers himself to sit opposite you. He's in Spiderman pyjama's. You'd mock him if you weren't breaking. And you really must be breaking to not want to mock Freddy Benson. "What's wrong?" His voice sounds so rich with concern, care. Warm. Home.

"I-I, it…uhm…I… p-pork?" You manage unintelligibly in-between barely muffled sobs. He smiles slightly, he seems relieved, as if you talking about food makes everything okay. It doesn't make everything okay. It makes you fat.

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**Author Notes:**** I hope that wasn't too suckish :). Please R&R. :P**


	2. iNeed To Be Judged

**Authors Notes:**** Right, so, you asked. I delivered. Enjoy. It's suckish. But you'll have to make do dears. **

**Disclaimer****: I don't own iCarly, or any of it's characters, nor do I own the song October by Evanescence, which is the one I'm vaguely referencing and the one that inspired this. **

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iNeed To Be Judged. 

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You're laying there, sprawled on your bedroom floor. You've been giggling all day, empty echoing giggles. But she hasn't caught your lie, she never does. Not for how well she claims to know you, she never catches you. You lie too well, she knows the lie too well. There's only one way to fix that, and that way will break it all apart.

To strip away the lie would be to strip away Carly's best friend.

You are the truth. The reality behind the self-perpetuating spiral of deceit. But no one knows you Sammy. No one loves you. No one cares. But Carly cares about Sam. Freddy was worried about Sam. Sam has her whole life ahead of her. You have nothing. You're just her till he stops, when he wants things. You're just here to save the illusion of Sam. To cry in the dark until you whither and Sam can be the only one. Until Sam can become reality. The only reality.

That's why you're rocking now. In your hell of home sweet home. Your voice breaking as you try and keep in step with Amy Lee's beautiful words. Your cheeks burning with your complete weakness. The melodic therapy can only do so much, can only keep you alive so long. You're cracking, into a million tiny piece. The truth falling apart under the weight of the titanic lie. Your doomed lie. The marble white façade and all that aching. God if only he hadn't ruined your blanket. If only Freddy hadn't smiled when you mentioned food. If only he'd insisted a little harder, cared a little more… No. No. Then you would have had to tell him.

You couldn't tell him. You can never tell him.

Because he'd tell her. And he would _have _to tell her. She in turn of course would _have_ to tell an adult. The adult would take you from your home and Sam would die. The illusion obliterated and the broken shell of Sammy left in its place. His Sammy exposed for all the world to see in her filthy glory. Just another victim.

Just another dead little girl.

That's why you could never tell him. You know that. You know that so why does every fiber of your stupid body ache to tell him? To tell someone? Why are you so intend on displaying the truth when you can live a lie perfectly content? After a while lying looses all meaning. The truth seems like a sick joke and you can make the world anything you want it.

Then there is this need to take into account. This underlying ache of emptiness, this urge to be wanted, loved, completely, as you. Not what they think you are. You. I never occurred to you before that someone might love you. That someone might care. Now that there's a chance they might you can't help but wonder. Is the lie worth it? In the end, after all is finished, will the lie be worth it? You realize, in all your childish wisdom, there's still so much you can't know. As fortune cookie cliché as it sounds, it's true.

That would be why you're walking across town in the early hours of the morning again, this time you're going to do it right. The this you'll unleash the truth. You'll for once in your sorry existence let yourself be judged by someone in possession of all the facts. Every last sordid unmentionable one.

The cold bites at your finger tips as you edge closer to the apartment block. You hum the song you attempting to sing earlier and it's just as shaken and out of key as before. But the words as they swirl in your head, they tell you you're doing the right thing. You have to be yourself, you have to be judged, you have to accept your fate.

You get there just as dawn is breaking. Your cheeks are wet and you're so cold you can feel your ears, really feel them, beyond blind recognition. You're not sure if you can do this. You've never told. You told yourself you never would. But you always did lie to yourself the most. Remember when you swore to yourself he'd _never ever _make you feel that way again, that he'd _never_ be inside you again, that you'd never let him desecrate you _ever_ again. Necessary lies. Your lies are so hollow and warm you just want to go to bed with them again. Shy away from the cold unwelcoming arms of truth. Run away. Run away like it never was. Let it never be again. Do it. Do it!

But you wont. Because you have to be judged. You stand there trying to knock, but you can't. God who knew on simple rap of the fist could take so much will. Who knew? You, somewhere you knew. It wasn't fear of him that stopped you. It was fear of this, fear of them.

You take a deep breath, and you hold it. And you don't let go. Not as you knock on the door. Not as he emerges in his ridiculous cartoon speckled pyjamas. Not as the concern etches itself into his familiar face. Not until you say the words. Those dark horrible representations of the truth. His face drops. His chin wobbles. You're holding him. He's crying… He's crying? You're saying that you're sorry over and over. And you are sorry.

You are sorry.

But what for? For hurting him? For letting yourself be hurt? For telling the truth? Maybe… You don't know.

You just know you're sorry.

"I'm so sorry Freddy. So sorry…." You whisper as you cradle him, he should be taking care of you. He should be soothing you. But that doesn't matter. He looks at you. God how those water tracks on his gentle face slice you. You're so sorry. "I'm really really sorry…" Your voice breaks and his face contorts.

"Oh god Sam, what has he done to you?" What has he done to you?

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	3. iNeed To Be Babied

**Authors Notes: Sorry, for the really slow update, and the seemingly incomplete chapter. There will be more, I promise. **

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iNeed To Be Babied.

This is why you never told. You knew it'd be like this. The sideways pitying glances and everyone and their step-cousin twice removed coming up to you, tilting their head in a sympathetic manor, gently resting their left hand on your shoulder and saying 'Listen I heard about what happened… I just want to let you know if you ever need to talk, I'm here for you.' their false care sickens you. You know lies well enough to spot a blatant one. And if that wasn't bad enough, Carly…. Carly tiptoes around you like a child who's broken their parents priceless Ming vase and is awaiting punishment. That odd combination of avoiding and being extra nice and helpful.

Then there's this room you're sat in. There's a padded red play area in the left corner, you see a teddy bear, his furs matted, he's missing both eyes and his nose looks like it's had a skirmish with a destructive child equipped with crinkly scissors. You want crinkly scissors, they're fun. You want that teddy bear. He looks like you feel. But you have to focus on the middle aged woman in front of you. She has her burgundy hair in a bun, her roots are showing, she's going grey. Her real eyebrows aren't there, but she's draw some prettier ones in. Her nose is shiny, the lights do no justice to her, harsh and criticizing. You daren't even think about what you look like… Her skins a synthetic orange, she was probably aiming for a light tan. It seems she failed. Her lips are too thin you decide and the shade of lipstick doesn't suit her, but then does prostitute red suit anyone? She's talking. Well you guess she's talking, but you can't really hear. You're so tired. So sick and tired of this.

You feel dizzy. You want to throw up but there's nothing left. Then again, was there anything left this morning? Or last night and the night before that? Is there ever anything left anymore? You're not so sure. You wonder if you've lost enough weight to die. Probably not or you'd be in hospital wouldn't you? Just focus Sam. Look at the orange woman. Smile, people like it when you smile. Good girl. Wait… no… the woman doesn't seem to like that, you can see her crows feet and those sour little lines around her mouth. Frown. Act sullen. Be emo. No, that doesn't seem to work either… focus Sam, what is she saying.? God you're so dizzy… and so tired. You can't help but cry. It's okay, you can cry as much as you want now. Everyone knows your weak so why bother pretending?

The woman leaves the room, you heard her vaguely mention water but you're more focused on the steady stream of tears pouring from your weathered eyes. And the teddy bear. He'll make it better, go hug him. You rub your face against his rough fur. He's a beautiful teddy bear. So imperfect it's wonderful. The woman comes back into the room armed with a glass of water and a fake smile. You blush slightly, you're too old for teddy bears. She says you can keep him if you like. This makes you happy, you smile, a small genuine smile. You sniff and wipe your eyes with the back of your left hand, your nose is running, you use your left hand for that too. Your stomach growls, the woman chuckles a little and say that your guardian's here to pick you up anyway.

Your guardian. Fredwards mother. Funny turn of events there. Your mother didn't believe you, and why would she? You've never been anything but a nuisance to her. Even when she tired to care you never appreciated it enough. But he, oh he would never lie, just like he'd never cheat or do drugs, and just like he always uses deodorant and take excellent care of his feet. Your mother choose him. But she already had so many times you've come to expect it of her. It still hurt . And child services didn't seem to pleased about it either. So they had to take you away, the asked you if there was anyone you could go and stay with, you said the first person who popped into your head.

Carly.

She and Spencer were hesitant about it, they love you, they don't mind you being in their house virtually twenty-four-seven. That was until they found out you have 'issues'. Then Freddie's mother offered. At first you thought the idea was insane. But you had no where else to go. You like it there now. She feeds you. She cares. It's nice. She's smothering. But you want to be smothered, you want to be babied, you want someone to make your lunch and remind you to brush your teeth. It doesn't even bother you that you have to wash your hair twice and be de-ticed, or that she makes you do your homework and only gives you an eight dollar allowance. It doesn't bother you. Because she cares, she's there.

Then there's Freddy.

God knows what you're to do with him.

He's so unsure of you. He tries. How he hard he does try, and unlike Carly, he can understand. To a degree, he understands. His father was never violent, but he drank, then he left. Abandonment is comprehendable for him. What happened to you, what_ really_ happened to you, he could never understand. You'd never wish him, or anyone to understand.

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